


Road to Combahee

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5302076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>South Carolina’s blistering summer is a familiar old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road to Combahee

**Author's Note:**

> tadeusz kosciuszko was a polish engineer who joined up with the revolutionaries, he took over as commander after laurens got shot at combahee– they were friends & kosciuszko was also an abolitionist. i don’t think hamilton’s letter ever actually reached laurens but im taking some liberties here ok. HISTORY LESSON OVER.

South Carolina’s blistering summer is a familiar old friend, Laurens and the fifty men at his flank as comfortable in the rising heat as on foot and horseback, as traveling along dense wooded paths, the sound of rushing water nearby. He’d received the command a day ago: help Genl. Gist scatter a small British force scrounging for rice along the Combahee River.

South Carolina, being what it is, means John will never hear the end of it if word spread that he was near Beaufort and chose not to visit his neighbors.

He’d returned to camp loaded down with sweets and baked goods for the soldiers under his command, all of them passing the night in relative peace, still toasting with their rations of cider to the new Union. John had retired early to his tent, drained from visiting at several houses, having the same conversation at each before he could find an excuse to return.

Kosciuszko rides up to him as they approach the river, a firm hand on his horse’s reins. Laurens nods to him, straightening his posture and holding his own mount still. The horses have been skittish all morning, probably attuned to the regiment’s restlessness.

“How far?” asks Kosciuszko, “I am not familiar with these lands as you are, Lt. Colonel.”

“A few miles upstream until we reach Chehaw Point,” Laurens tells him, a slow smile growing on his face at the other man’s presence. “The redoubt should be in good condition but time permitting, I would like you to inspect it first.”

“I shall.”

They stand in silence for a long minute, waiting on stragglers to draw back into formation for their march. John breaks it, turning in his saddle to watch the men fall in line. “Are you tired, Captain?”

“I have fought more wars than you,” Kosciuszko retorts, looking at him sideways. “Are _you_ tired, Colonel Laurens?”

John consciously eases the tension in his shoulders, forces his mouth into a wide grin and hopes that the dark circles under his eyes aren’t too conspicuous in the early morning light. “How can I be tired on a day like this?”

“New day, new country.”

“Yes.”

Laurens seems to be dreading the question, but Kosciuszko asks anyway, “What will you do after?”

“I imagine,” answers John carefully, “that it will be much more difficult to convince Congress to establish a black battalion without British soldiers to fight.”

Kosciuszko cuffs him hard on the shoulder, grabbing on and shaking him lightly. His voice is firm, brimming with confidence and optimism. “You will have plenty of time to concoct a new plan for emancipation, my friend. All the courage and integrity required as well.”

Laurens’s smile falters. “Your words are very kind, sir.”

“My intention was not kindness. Engineers deal in facts and science.”

“About which you’ve taught me a great deal.”

“Until you grow bored of it,” Kosciuszko teases, “I am happy to continue doing so.”

John takes the offer for what it is: a chance to set his mind at ease, if temporarily. “I’ll admit, sir, the end of the war causes me as much sadness as joy. Some days I feel as though this is the only stage on which I know how to act.”

“I can assure you,” Kosciuszko says, completely unruffled, though his tone becomes gentle, “you are not alone.”

“What awaits me after the war has ended?” John tangles his fingers in his horse’s dark mane, picking apart tangles in the coarse hair. “I return to my father’s estate, continue fighting a battle I’m not sure I can win, against a tide that will not turn.”

“One could have said the same about your revolution here.”

“There is much to gain from breaking away from Britain,” John sighs, patting his horse’s neck and picking up the reins, idly twisting them as his expression darkens. “Very little from freeing slaves.”

“I am confident you will find allies in whatever you choose to do,” says Kosciuszko, reaching across and plucking the leather straps out of his hands before the horse considers bucking him off. “You may be a fine soldier, but you are indisputably a splendid young man.”

“You think much of me.” Impossibly, John’s voice had grown even more despondent. He looks at his hands, shoulders drooping slightly, but determination flickers across his face. “I can only hope to live up to your esteem.”

Kosciuszko nearly pulls him off his horse then, arms tight around the younger man’s shoulders before he physically sets a somewhat startled Laurens back in the saddle. “I think just the right amount of you,” he insists, patting John’s shoulders and straightening his collar. “And now, I leave you to your messenger.”

A young soldier rides up to him as Kosciuszko retreats, slowing as he catches sight of Laurens’s dazed expression. “Lt. Colonel,” he says, “young William rode into camp yesterday while you were away.”

Still reeling from his last exchange, John nods slowly and flashes the boy a reassuring smile. “Young William? As opposed to old William?”

“He brought a letter for you, from New York.”

John takes the envelope, substantial weight already a tip to its sender. He turns it, smiling as he runs his thumb around the edge of a seal, Hamilton’s familiar crest stamped in red wax, then tucks it into his coat, parchment crinkling as it flattens against his chest. “I’ll read it later,” he announces, focus turned back to the task at hand, one hand pressed over his jacket to smooth the letter further. “We have a long march ahead.”


End file.
